


Count Your Blessings

by evenifwecantfindheaven



Category: Coco (2017)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-28
Updated: 2019-04-28
Packaged: 2020-02-09 05:24:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18631693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evenifwecantfindheaven/pseuds/evenifwecantfindheaven
Summary: Summary: unable to take being away from his family any longer, Héctor leaves Ernesto in the lurch. AU/deviation where Hector lives, all characterizations are as they are in canon. Multichapter.





	Count Your Blessings

The chugging of the turning iron wheels rattled the wooden bench against  Héctor’s back and rang in his ears. He clasped the wooden handle of his suitcase with one hand, and the handle of his guitar case with the other, as a stranger strolling down the train’s aisle brushed his shoulder and grunted.

This would be Héctor’s home for twelve hours, his pen, notebook, and guitar his sole companions on this ill thought-out (correction: not thought out at all) journey. And then he would disembark ten miles from the cobbled streets of Santa Cecilia. His last turn would be down a short dirt road that led to a modest house with a courtyard, two bedrooms, enough rice and flour to last for a week or two, and dwindling coffers.

Oh god...what had he done?

_“This was your dream. You’ll manage.”_

_“I can’t do this without your songs, Héctor!”_

_“You want my songs? Fine. You can have The World Es Mi Familia. You can have Juanita. You can have Balada la Estupido and Amor en la Tormenta and The Unfortunate Fiesta.”_

_“What about Poco Loco?”_

_“No, that’s...why would you even want to...” Héctor signed. “Fine. You can perform it. Just don’t ever dedicate it to anyone.”_

_“What happens when I run out of songs to sing?”_

_“Hire a new songwriter,” Héctor snapped. “Hate me if you want, but my mind is made up. I’m leaving!”_

And Ernesto did hate him. The look on his face, the pure disgust and rage, was burned into Héctor’s mind. But nevertheless, he had grabbed his suitcase and walked down to the train station. He hadn’t even changed out of his mariachi suit first. Worse, he hadn’t collected his share of their money from their performance earlier that night. That might have gotten them through a few extra days, and now Ernesto would probably keep it forever.

Héctor’s fingers brushed the smooth leather of his guitar case. He was careful to hold it in a way that didn’t wake his seatmate, a man some twenty years his senior wrapped in a blanket. Héctor’s blanket was in his suitcase, and he didn’t want to cause a disturbance by opening it up now. So instead, he slouched against the hard wood and closed his eyes.

At around six o’clock in the morning, Héctor woke up. He wasn’t sure when he fell asleep, but enough sunlight glinted off the beadedrim of his seatmate’s sombrero to tell him he’d been out for a while. Some of the other passengers were beginning to stir, some of them were actively trying to stay asleep. Héctor heard a noise and looked around, only to realize that it was the man sitting beside him, who had a tear running down his cheek.

They met each other’s eyes for a moment, then they both looked away, embarrassed.

The train continued clacking along. People began pulling out thermoses and breads and flasks. Héctor realized that he stupidly hadn’t thought to bring anything to eat or drink. Which was fine. The weather was cool, and he might as well start fasting now.

“You play guitar?” the man sitting beside Héctor remarked. “I’ve always wanted to play. My wife said she’d buy me a guitar after we retired.”

Héctor noticed that under his blanket, the man was wearing a cotton shirt and pants of pure black.

“I’m sorry for your loss.”

The man looked away, the deep sadness evident in his expression.

“Would you like to hear some music?” Héctor offered.

He looked surprised, but he said,  _“Si.”_ Héctor pulled out his guitar and set it on his lap.

“Any requests?” The man told Héctor what song he wanted to hear. He wasn’t intimately familiar with it, but he recognized it. He began to play it, first softly, like a lullaby, then faster.

_“Popular among the troups was Adelita_  
The woman that the sergeant idolized  
Besides being brave, she was bonita  
And even the Colonel respected her 

_And you could hear…_  
What he would say…  
The sergeant who loved her so much…

_If Adelita wanted to be my wife_  
Y si Adelita fuera mi mujer   
I would buy a dress of silk to take her dancing  
A bailar al cuartel

_And if I should die en la guerra,_  
And my body be taken and buried,  
Adelita, for God's sake I beg you  
Not to mourn or to cry for me”

As the final notes faded into the air, the man’s lips formed a soft, sad smile.

“It reminds me of Sofia.”

Héctor smiled, in spite of himself.

“It reminds me of my wife, too.”

The man straightened himself up a little, loosening the blanket.

“What’s she like?”

Héctor packed up his guitar.

“She’s perfect. Every little thing about her is beautiful, even more so inside than out. She doesn’t realize it yet, but she’s the strongest person in Santa Cecilia. She probably thinks I say that because she confronts people who do wrong, or because she once stopped a robbery. But those aren’t the things that scare her. Her strength comes out when she’s afraid, and remains resilient. I have no doubt that nothing could break her.”

The thought calmed Héctor. When she found out what he had done, Imelda might be angry. She would definitely be scared. But she would be okay.

He still hated himself for making her angry and scared, though.

“Where is she?” asked the man.

“She’s at home. She’s fine, right now. I’ve been out on tour for months but I write to her every other say, send her every song I write, every peso I earn.”

Héctor hesitated. He didn’t want to burden this stranger, who was already going through so much, with his problems, but the man seemed to be enjoying the distraction.

“I did something bad.” The stranger sat up and looked to him attentively. “I’ve wasted my youth chasing a stupid musical fantasy. And now my family is going to starve.”

Héctor wasn’t sure what reaction he was expecting, but he definitely wasn’t expecting a chuckle.

“What?”

“Camacho, how old are you? Twenty-five?”

“Twenty-one.”

“Even better. You haven’t been on this earth nearly long enough to tell me that you’ve  _wasted your youth,_ no matter what you’ve done.”

“Great. I’m too young to be old, too old to learn a new trade, and too poor not to care.”

“You are absolutely  _not_ too old to learn a new trade!” The stranger sat up. “Look at me. I’m forty-five years old. I have no family left, no money, no property. If I can start over with nothing, so can you.”

Héctor was quiet for a moment.

“But I don’t have nothing. I have a family to support. Imelda could work, she was a waitress for four years, but she shouldn’t  _have_ to. I promised her she wouldn’t. What are we supposed to do? Promise our secondborn child to an oligarch? Start holding our friends for ransom? Take out a loan from her little brothers’ schoolbook fund?”  Héctor looked down. “I wonder how much I could get for my mariachi suit. I could probably get more for the guitar.”

The thought of selling his guitar was so upsetting it made him ache. Music was important to him. So were gifts from his wife.

Ernesto had always been jealous of this guitar. Héctor wasn’t sure why. Maybe because he’d gotten it first, when Ernesto was still using an old brown guitar that Héctor had fixed up for him with a screwdriver and pliers. But now Ernesto had his own guitar that was just as nice, and he  _still_ kept offering to trade it for this one.

“I  _never_ should have walked away from that job,” Héctor said softly. “Real men don’t walk away from a job. My Papá drilled that into me when his good-for-nothing business partner nearly destroyed their leather business with his shoddy work ethics.”

That man had been Ernesto’s Papá. He had run out of town when he found out the business was about to go belly up, his wife had joined a convent, and Ernesto, who was seventeen at the time, was left with nothing. Héctor’s Papá had been happy to take in the teenage boy who he already loved like a son. But the strain of supporting a family of four on a shoestring had lead to his fatal heart attack. Then his wife’s depression, and resulting weakened constitution. Then her death from influenza six months after his.

_That would never happen to Imelda,_  Héctor reminded himself. If something happened to him, she would find a way to survive. If not for herself, then for Coco. But she had already suffered so much, and struggled for so long.

“I’ve known you for less than an hour, and I can already tell that you are a more responsible man than your father’s business partner. You love your family. And you love playing music. Why  _did_ you walk away?”

“Because I haven’t seen Imelda or Coco in three months. And I miss them. Coco, my little girl, she’s only three. I’m already afraid that I won’t know her anymore when I come back, or worse, that she won’t recognize me at all. In my last letter, I promised her I would be home for Christmas. But then Ernesto tried to line up another series of gigs for us without even asking me. It would have had us touring until the end of January. So I said no. And I left.”

Héctor’s hands began to shake as the train slowed down. The man quickly folded his blanket and lifted his small suitcase into his lap. The whistle blew as the vehicle halted.

“Listen, Camacho,” he said. “Everything you have done, you have done out of the goodness of your heart. Your family is lucky to have you. And as long as you never let yourself forget how much you love them, you are going to be just fine.”

The stranger slipped his hand into his suitcase and pulled out a small bag, bulging with unspent pesos.

“Here,” he said. “For Coco.”

“Ay, señor, I couldn’t possibly…”

“My name’s not señor,” said the stranger. “It’s Chichirron. And I’ll be just fine. I still have plenty left to get me a guitar.”

And the strange disappeared into the crowd.

_Notes: the song sung in this chapter is a real folk song from the time period. Some of the other song titles mentioned are obviously completely from canon, the rest I made up. Please review if you want to see more chapters!_


End file.
